


These vessels that we fill

by nava



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Elf/Human Relationship(s), F/M, Light Angst, Non-Penetrative Sex, Older Man/Younger Woman, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 04:37:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6596938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nava/pseuds/nava
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas undresses Trevelyan as a ritual. </p><p>smut happens, and angst snuck in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These vessels that we fill

He takes care when he peels her outer armor off. The chestpiece is made of bands of custom leather with a lining of softer, delicate leathers but it is heavy and fits her tightly. She had bruises before, a thrashing normal for anyone who faces against a dragon but Solas does not wish any discomfort on her. He’d healed her hurts, but as with most things, her body still bore echoes of the pain. 

 

It's a delicate, nearly reverent process; this ritual of nearly completely undressing her in the silence of her room or even the wilderness if privacy is a luxury to be provided. She's the same height as him so if she leans back, the back of her head would touch his angled forehead. 

 

She does. Her hair smells of sweat and dirt but beneath it is the scent that lingers in her rooms, the inside of her clothes, the pads of her fingertips when she drags them across his jaw or his his ears. It is an indescribable scent, nameless and soft and infinitely enjoyable despite his inability to appropriately express what it is. 

 

She breathes easier when he unlaces the last knot of her chestpiece. Her subsequent sigh is as rewarding as a moan or a touch. It is enough for both of them. Her head lolls to the side to the cradle of where his neck meets his shoulder. 

 

The rift between their bodies allows warmth to flow between them easily, until a gust brings a kiss of a chill. 

 

He lays fingers at the knots at her hips, the tight wraps beneath her armor that prevent the armor from sticking to her skin are moist, but that matters little to him. He undoes the knots one at a time, and lets the wraps fall open. The wraps still cling the swell of her breasts, to the curve of her shoulders and do not fall from her completely. 

 

The dark shadows of her nipples show through the light material. He tugs at the front of her undershirt and it falls, fluttering until it lies at their feet like a fallen leaf. He inhales sharply, abruptly, although the sight is not new. Her breasts are not so large for her size, but she is larger than an elven woman in many ways. The exotic strangeness of her build, her so very human body, is nonetheless thrilling because it is her, this body is the one she inhabits. Her body would be just another body, appealing the way a painting is, but nothing so entrancing as to stir him if it were not hers.

 

He presses his palms to the wide jut of her hips, fingers spreading to lay across her abdomen. Her skin is flushed, still riding on the adrenaline high of the combat from earlier with a dragon, and likely the lyrium withdrawal is still affecting her body temperature. The almond duskiness of her skin shows spots of red in the dip of her collarbone and the flesh of her neck and cheeks. Her breathing quickens. She turns the side of her face to his jaw, pressing against his jaw with her cheek and shuddering the slightest. 

 

Her leather breeches and boots still remain but for now, she presses heated skin against the cooler cotton of his casual wear. 

 

“I need a bath,” she murmurs into the hard line of his jaw.  “My hair,” She says but is unable to finish. 

 

Solas hums and shushes her. The words vibrate in his throat as he speaks and she presses her nose and closed mouth to bob of his throat. “You need rest, primarily. I can get a wet cloth and help. But if you bathe now you will fall asleep there, again.”

 

It would not be the first time he caught her dozing in her bath, arms and head hanging over the side of the tub. She could have easily slipped in and inhaled water. 

 

She mutters something in his skin, a hot wash of breath. He didn't catch all of what she said, but it was likely filthy. 

 

They move, with Solas’ careful guidance, towards the low bed she keeps, a dwarven construction that is sturdy and made of angles from all sides. She slides from her boots quickly despite her apparent lethargy.

 

He unlaces her breeches slowly, without any hurry, as if the moment could take the rest of eternity and it would not matter. All he wants is to take in this moment, and all other moments with her. Playing at eternity is better than acknowledging that its existence is impossible. She does not have it, and his time with her is running out, but such thoughts have no place in this space he has created. 

 

In this place and time, her existence is everything and eternal. 

 

He tugs at her breeches and notes with some amusement that they stick slightly to her skin and make a noise as they come away from her. She grunts in displeasure and some of the poetry in the moment is gone, replaced with something visceral and ordinary. 

 

The breeches fall away and she steps out of them, shaking a foot to be rid of them completely. “Ugh. I don't even want to let the servants launder these. ‘S embarrassing.”

 

She sounds as if she is about to go on and Solas would rather not lose the moment completely, so he lifts his chin to maneuver over her cheek, nudging the bridge of her nose with the tip of his. “It is very rare we have a private moment of quiet to ourselves.” He whispers, voice dropping to a husk that makes her eyes close like a cat that is caught in a stretch under warm sunbeams. 

 

She makes an agreeable noise and follows his lead nearly bonelessly to the bed. He tips her over slowly even though balance is one of her talents, and wraps an arm about her waist, clasping a hip in one hand while his other hand lingers in the dip of the small of her back. 

 

She falls from him gently. She reaches up and her fingers trace his jaw, the lines of his throat, the curves of an ear to the arch of his brow and cheek before stopping at the corner of his mouth. His hands travel to her hips, sliding down her thighs and palming the bends of her knees. The muscles in her legs clench and quake. 

 

Her other hand slips beneath his light tunic, and her fingers barely graze the skin of his stomach and chest. 

 

This is not their first dance, but their explorations have often been patient and curious. This push pull attraction hasn't even yet been fully realized. Various reasons on both their parts prevent total completion of this - this, here and now where she is content to have his attention and he wants to breathe her in, is enough. He cannot say if it will be so for all their time together, but for now it is. 

 

Her hand lingers on his jaw, thumbing the lobe of his ear. Her eyes catch the light of the candles at her bedside while her hand in his tunic stills over his heart. Her lips curve into a smile, no matter what the context of her smiles are, they always carry a hint of mischief because the corners of her lips are turned up in a permanent curl. 

 

Solas’ smile has fallen away without his notice. She is young and beautiful and it is a curse upon her, upon him, that she will not be so for long. 

 

“You know sometimes when we have special alone time, you look really sad and I have to say it doesn’t do much for the ego.” She wrinkles her nose at him and her smile turns crooked, concerned but lighthearted. 

 

He doesn’t respond, but settles between her thighs, to press his forehead to hers. “You inspire many feelings.”  _ Not all of them for the better for either of them _ , he doesn’t say. 

 

She shrugs but keeps her smile and closes her eyes to enjoy the moment. Her thighs come up and clasp his hips, settling his weight against her in a way that is sensual but comfortable. 

 

“You shouldn’t be so sad all the time. You’ll get wrinkles and look even older.” She teases quietly. 

 

Despite himself, Solas quirks a brow and he fights a smile. “I apologize for looking so  _ elderly _ .” 

 

Trevelyan sighs and pulls him closer to her until he is pillowed on her chest and stomach. “I’ll forgive you, of course. Provided you make an effort.” 

 

Solas chuckles because her levity is always infectious and presses his mouth to her bottom lip. She sighs, opens and he partakes of her in ways that would have horrified him before, but she gives so freely and openly without shame or hesitation. He bites her lip and she giggles, inviting him in, inviting him closer and insinuating dark, velvet promises should he let it continue. He won’t, he always pulls away. She may fray and tear at his self control, but he is older than her and an old hand at denying himself things that bring comfort or joy. 

 

She arches, rubbing, ankles locking behind him and her thick thighs hold him there. She pulls him closer than he should let her. She sighs and moans when he combs through her hair, trailing a hand down her neck to rasp over her shoulder, to wrap around her rib beneath her breast. 

 

Her mouth is warm and wet, a slippery place that tastes of tea and the slight bitter taste of lyrium dust - an errant thought crosses his mind that she has not been entirely truthful of her addiction - but the thought is cast aside when she rolls against him impatiently. This is one of the areas when her youth rears its head, heated and wanting without any mind for patience, these things do not take so long with men her age, or people in general who do not age as he does. 

 

He lets her roll against but puts some distance between them so she does not excite him further, and for the simple fact that he enjoys the way she frowns and squirms when she does not receive the friction she desires. 

 

“Solas,” she hisses, twisting her torso to chase him, legs tightening around his hips nearly bruisingly. 

 

He chuckles and moves from her mouth to breathe in the shell of her ear. “Do I disappoint?” 

 

She shudders again with feeling, the tremors traveling from her to his hips and the fingers that clutch at his shoulders with short, sharp nails. A soft, whining pant escapes from her that sets alight feelings that, if not for her, would have laid dormant for far longer. 

 

“I need, I need, I need, please, I need Solas,  _ so badly _ .” She whispers, hoarse and wanting. 

 

He adjusts his lower body so that one of her legs slides over his thigh but that his right hip is caught at the apex of her thigh. He slips her smalls to the side, thin and nearly transparent, and grinds his hipbone over the place that emanates heat like boiling water. He hisses when the wetness soaks through his trousers, and her soft noises escalate suddenly with the new friction, a high, long note that fills the quiet room. 

 

He moves quickly with purpose and ignores the excitement building within, concentrates on not allowing himself to harden but he cannot escape the beat of his heart quickening, the rhythm of his breath breaks. She cannot break his control, but she frays it so well. 

 

She moves with him, uncoordinated despite her grace in battle and everyday locomotion, and her moans become louder, higher, nearly screams. He rolls his hips deeply, his hipbone catching the hood of her clitoris and she gasps, eyes opening from surprise and her entire body shakes, breaking at the the seams. 

 

She pants louder, still moving though her movements are weaker and shaken. 

 

She clutches at his shoulders while he continues moving against her. She rides it out, experiences another smaller one that doesn’t set her screaming but does make her whine and claw at his clothed back, and rides that one out even slower. 

 

He stops when she tugs at him urgently - she is too sensitive and so he pulls his hip away, strings of moisture sticking still connected to her - and settles lightly against her. 

 

“Solas, you…” She makes a half-hearted move to reach for his groin but he places her hand on his chest. 

 

He shakes his head slightly, ears lying flat to his skull, and kisses her softly. She accepts it readily though her participation is muddled from exhaustion. He sighs and remains there for another moment before pushing away, sliding his hands down her torso, her hips and thighs, to her calves as he lifts himself off of her slowly. 

 

She sighs and her legs reflexively try to close him in again, but he chuckles and unwinds her legs. 

 

“I need a new pair of trousers, and you still need a wet cloth.” He says, amusement breaking through at the sight of her even as his desire remains. On her back with her long hair spread everywhere, her arms and legs sprawled gracelessly across the bed while her skin shines in the flame with sweat. The curls between her thighs glisten and lie flat, but he removes his gaze before he is tempted further. 

 

Her only response is a sleepy murmur, eyes already shut.

 

He smiles slightly and takes another long look at her before turning to leave. 

 

He pauses on the way to the wash to look over his shoulder, peering again at the woman on the bed and his smile vanishes like smoke. He is not making it any easier on either of them. It is not even a charade, the feelings are raw and real, as real as the stone he walks on and the world that he had lived in before, and it goes both ways when it should not. It will not last, she will not last and he - he must endure, even when she will not. He leaned against the banister that led down the stairs. 

 

It would be kinder to force stoicism, to turn fire to ice, but as she frays his control, he understands all too well her shameful dependence on lyrium. He empathizes with the control addiction has because she is the worst sort of addiction, and he is too selfish to stop. 

 

He could but he will not, because she is not ageless and he will take from her whatever he can. 

 

Another rustle of sheets and blankets has him turning and he sees she has rolled to her front, breathing deeply. 

  
He turns away into the darkness of the stairs and leaves the warm body of the woman and the flickering candles behind. 


End file.
